Goodbye Love
by HardfacedQueenofMisadventure
Summary: Mimi walks out, leaving Mark to try to pick up the pieces. T for RENT-ish themes and potential future stuff. Eventual Marker pairing. Bad and unoriginal summary is bad and unoriginal, I know. Reviews would be wonderful.


**A/N: *gasp* Could it be, after months of inactivity, a new fanfic? For starters, I'd just like to apologize to everyone. I know I've been a horrifically unreliable authoress recently, but real life and a major crisis of confidence have held me back a lot lately. To those of you who may have read my old RENT-fic, I'll Be Your Shelter, that story is no more. It was written a very long time ago, and in my opinion, it's not a good reflection of my skills. Translation: it royally sucked. So I took it down. An overhaul may or may not be on the cards sometime in the future, though, so keep your eyes open. With this fic, I hereby promise to try harder, to publish more regularly, and to write better-quality stuff. Now, onto the story itself before this A/N becomes too long. See you at the bottom!**

* * *

Everything was happening far too quickly; Mark couldn't focus on what was unfolding before his eyes. One minute there had been Mimi and Roger, the bedroom door had slammed, sealing him off. There had been some scuffling, some yelling, and now…  
_Now._  
Roger was sitting in the middle of the floor, his arms limp and dead by his sides. His face was a mask; blank, lifeless. His eyes were dull and unfocused, fixated on some far-off point. He seemed completely unaware of his surroundings. To see his closest friend reduced to this over an argument…well, it must have been bad. Very bad. That knowledge frightened Mark more than anything else.

"Roger," he said in a low voice, at a loss for what to do. Roger did not respond to the sound of his own name, so Mark cautiously edged closer, crouching down beside him, and laid a gentle hand on his arm. This time he got a reaction. Roger jumped and turned his head, evidently spotting Mark for the first time. He blinked slowly a couple of times, eyes still hazy and unfocused, and looked up at him properly.

"She left me," he murmured in a dull monotone, as if only just coming to terms with the news. "She _left _me." It suddenly all made sense in Mark's head. The muffled cocktail of noises he'd heard through the bedroom door: the yelling, the banging and screaming, the metallic rumble of the door being dragged open, the strangely final sound of it slamming shut. Mimi. Roger. Fighting.  
No. It couldn't have happened. Not tonight. Not like this.  
The hand that rested on Roger's shoulder suddenly gave a brief, comforting squeeze, trying to convey all the thoughts and feelings that could never be spoken aloud. Mark felt a tremor pass through his friend's body, and realised with a sick jolt that he was crying. Wracking, broken sobs that were so alien to him. Roger had never cried like this. Sure, he'd cried before: at Angel's funeral, the night Mimi had almost died in his arms, and many times before that during his withdrawal period, but this was new. A raw, visceral sound of pure heartbreak.  
Wait. Roger had cried this was before, but only once, and Mark didn't like to think about _the bathtub half-full of water, surreal red painting the grimy porcelain, blue eyes forever wide open…_

The sound tore through Mark, bringing tears to his own eyes that he held back stubbornly. One of them had to hold themselves together, and it didn't look likely that Roger would. Seized with a sudden urge to comfort, he wrapped both arms around Roger and hugged him tightly. On an ordinary day, the gesture would have been playfully rebuffed. There might have been a quick, brotherly one-armed hug, but Mark would have found himself gently, teasingly pushed away. This, however, was anything but an ordinary day, and Roger gladly accepted the embrace, burrowing deep into Mark's arms like a frightened child.

"It's okay," Mark soothed, cautiously moving a hand to run through Roger's spiked-up, bleached hair. "It's okay. Shh…." His words dissolved into comforting nonsense, but Roger didn't seem to mind. Mark glanced around at the eerily quiet loft. How had it come to this? What had been going on with the two of them to cause them to argue like that? In a way, Mark was glad he didn't know. Mimi and Roger had stuck together through thick and thin, near-death hadn't even been enough to tear them apart. What disaster could have happened between them to cause this?

It was several minutes before Roger's crying slowed enough to allow him to breathe normally. It was several more minutes before he finally dared to lift his head. He looked…bad. Eyeliner had run to leave dark shadowy tracks beneath his slightly bloodshot green eyes. His face was pale and tear-streaked. A livid red mark that could have been a slap (had Mimi really slapped him?) inflamed his left cheek. Mark gently touched the angry red patch with the tips of his fingers. Pain reflected in Roger's eyes, but he didn't make a sound.

"Do you need some ice for that?" Roger wordlessly shook his head.

"I'm okay," he said firmly. He made it sound like less of a reassurance and more of a fierce affirmation. "It's fine." He started tensing up, pulling away from Mark again, and shaking his head slowly, as if in disbelief.

"Do you…want me to go downstairs and talk to her?" Mimi was known for being hot-headed and flighty, but maybe he could try to talk her out of whatever this was…?

"She's not there."

"What do you mean she's…?" Then it hit him, feeling somewhat like a freight train. "Oh." _She's left me. _She really had left, then. This was no simple little _I'm sleeping downstairs tonight _fight, then. This was the real thing.

"Oh, Roger." There was nothing else he could really say now. There was no way of fixing it. "Do you know where she might have gone?" Roger said nothing, but shook his head again, curling tighter into himself on the floor. He was starting to tremble lightly, and though Mark didn't point it out (_because that would be just like him, wouldn't it? Always over-concerned when it isn't necessary) _he wanted to make sure Roger didn't get too cold. _Damn our lack of heating. _

"Hey," he said tentatively after a minute of watching his roommate shiver. "Let's get off the floor, hmm?" His tone remained light and gentle, though the look on his face warned Roger not to argue. Thankfully, Roger was compliant enough and allowed himself to be led as far as the beaten-up old couch. Mark sensed that his presence was no longer needed, and decided to leave Roger alone for the rest of the night. He left blankets within reach, knowing better than to try to tuck them round him at a time like this, and quietly said goodnight. Just before he headed for his own bedroom, he paused. Looked back at the figure huddled up in the corner of the couch. Wondered what the hell to do next. Roger didn't look back up at him, and for a second Mark thought he'd fallen asleep. But just as he was about to shut the door, he spoke.

"Mark?" God, his voice sounded so small.

"Hmm?" A long pause.

"N-nothing. Goodnight." In the dim light, Mark saw him turning away, gazing back out of the window again. He pulled his bedroom door shut and sat, fully dressed, on the bed. He picked up his camera from the floor, and, without turning it on, began to speak.

"_February ninth, ten pm, Eastern Standard time," _he murmured to himself. "_From here on in, I have no idea what to do."_

* * *

**A/N: Well, there you have it. The first chapter. I have only written this chapter so far, so some helpful feedback will most definitely speed the updating process along, especially since I'm not quite sure where to take it from here. A brief warning: This fic may contain an OC later on, but there will be no OC-based romance *watches everybody breathe a sigh of relief*  
So, read and review, constructive feedback welcomed, bu tI will use all flames to ignite the night with passionate fire. (I've really missed making those jokes...) **


End file.
